Too Hot to Dry

Summer and Maya shove quarters into a dying machine in the back of a run-down laundromat. Maya’s face is stone. Summer cracks jokes, tugs at her sleeve, begs her to lighten up. Nothing lands. Maya stays quiet and seething. Fed up, Summer fills a paper cup at the chipped sink and brings it over like a peace offering. One clumsy step, the cup tilts, cold water hits Maya square in the chest. She jumps, swears, clothes now pasted to skin. “Fuck it,” Summer says, yanking the wet bundle over Maya’s head. “Machine’s open. Might as well finish the job.” Maya scowls but peels off her jeans, stands in nothing but cotton panties while Summer stuffs everything into the washer. A thin towel from the lost-and-found rack lands in Maya’s hands. She wraps it around herself, glaring at the cracked tiles. Summer moves in close, towel loosened by a single fingertip, and the corner lifts like a curtain. Summer grins, wicked and steady, and slips her hand beneath the damp cotton between Maya’s thighs, fingers gliding where the water never reached. Maya bites her lip, breath catching. The laundromat hums, but their corner is silent now, heat climbing fast.